Silk
by orchidcactus
Summary: A collection of one-shots based on prompts, mostly with romantic or AU leanings. Many will be m/m, some will be gen. Each 'chapter' will be rated separately.
1. Chapter 1

This is the first of the prompts I'll be uploading under this title. For the curious, I've included more information about _Silk_ in my profile.

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><p>For a prompt requesting Hawke being a physically affectionate person, while Fenris is not accustomed to such contact.<p>

Pairing: m!rogue!Hawke/Fenris

Rating: M/R

Warnings: None

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><p>Sex, it turns out, is not the difficult part.<p>

At least that's the thought which enters Hawke's mind as he watches Fenris sleep.

The elf lies on his back, one hand in a fist curled over the lyrium lines on his chest, and white hair falls over his face, almost in his eyes. A frown appears on Fenris' face and his lips tighten, and Hawke knows his dreams are not pleasant and even though he could reach out and brush away white hair and break the dream's hold, he doesn't.

They both have their night terrors. His are of the Templars taking Bethany or Carver falling to the ogre, and the only answer he's ever received from Fenris is a sidelong glance that placed the question firmly in the realm of _the past_. They both have their terrors and the worst way to be woken from such is with a careless touch.

Of course Hawke realizes it's a remarkable thing in of itself, that the elf should feel secure enough to allow the vulnerability of falling asleep together, even if Fenris still insists on sleeping nearest the door, sword leaned near the headboard. Hawke can't fault this either, though; his daggers are always within reach and there's a throwing knife under his pillow.

The difficulty came, not particularly surprisingly, with touch. Not the physical contact that was Fenris beneath him, rocking back against Hawke's slow, steady thrusts and crying out Hawke's name, but the casual touch that Hawke had -with admittedly a great deal of naiveté- expected to come part and parcel with this new intimacy.

He'd made the mistake earlier in the day of looping his arms around Fenris and pulling him into an embrace, only to have Fenris freeze, his muscles twitching as though he were ready to bolt. To say the hug had been a failure was an understatement.

"You're watching me."

The words aren't spoken loudly, but still they surprise him. Fenris' eyes are closed, his dark eyelashes fanned over dark skin, but his breathing has changed and the frown has disappeared.

"Sorry," Hawke rolls to his back, looking at the ceiling's mold and crack-creased tiles.

"Why?"

Hawke hears the brush of fabric on skin and when he glances sideways Fenris is leaning on his elbow, looking at him critically. There is no anger in either question or expression, but there is the wariness Hawke's come to recognize as Fenris' reaction to the unknown.

"Thinking. Sorry."

"Hnn," the sound is drawn out, as critical as a stare, and even though it seems like _not the time_, Hawke can't deny way it makes something coil in his chest.

"It won't happen again. Going to sleep now," Hawke says this too quickly, closing his eyes and feeling almost like a child who should be issuing fake snores to prove how asleep he was.

"It is too late to retreat," Fenris' voice is decidedly closer and Hawke wonders if he imagines the heat that radiates from him. There is still the wariness in Fenris' tone and Hawke is learning that vulnerability comes in sizes and forms which are not related to falling asleep with a lover in one's bed.

He sighs and opens his eyes. The mold and cracks look back with a critical stare all of their own. "I didn't mean to startle you today."

There is a long pause. "Ah."

There is nothing to be gleaned -other than another twist of desire in his gut- from the sound. A quick glance tells him all he needs to know, that Fenris is _quite close _and a furrow has formed between his eyes. So, it was an _ah _that meant Fenris was still wary or perhaps it meant nothing at all, other than Hawke could feel blood _moving _at a time which seems rather like rather unfortunate -or at least rude- timing.

Hawke sighs again, but this time he makes a useless gesture with one hand, as though a hand-wave could fix this. Even if he were a mage -where hand waving was not so useless- he doubts there is a spell to counteract general awkwardness or for easing an unwanted erection. "I didn't realize it would bother you that much. That also won't happen again."

Another long silence where Hawke wonders if the mold is growing as he stares.

"It did not 'bother' me," Fenris says.

Hawke dares look away from the ceiling and now Fenris has edged close enough that when Hawke turns his head Fenris is close enough to kiss. He can see the tiny lines around the elf's eyes when they narrow and he knows Fenris is intent on whatever goal he has set.

"Oh. I… see," Hawke says, and thinks -much like useless hand waving- the statement that comes out in a slightly choked manner is _so very helpful _in smoothing this conversation. It is utterly wrong of him to be aroused by Fenris' nearness when he needs something entirely different and Hawke winces at the sound of his own voice.

"While it was unexpected, I understand the intent." This is said much more softly and it occurs to Hawke that while he hadn't misread the wariness, he had misread the cause because Fenris slides his arm around Hawke's shoulders and pulls them together.

It is awkward and stiff and it fills his eyes with Fenris' hair, and while it is not what Hawke would have typically considered a proper hug, he has long since come to realize things such as _typical _did not apply to Fenris.

He wraps his arm around Fenris' back, stroking warm skin and tense muscle and the places left unmarked by the past. He feels a tremor go through Fenris and a hot exhale of air against his chest and then muscle and tendon relax and he can't help but place a careful kiss on the crown of soft white hair.

"Thank you," he says and although it's not the most eloquent of statements he doesn't feel the least bit like wincing at the emotion which makes his voice sound as though his chest is being compressed.

It's a further surprise when Fenris pulls himself a bit closer and slips one leg over Hawke's hips. Even through the linen pants he sleeps in, the press of Fenris' leg against his cock pulls an involuntary groan from him.

Fenris pulls away enough to look at Hawke with eyes narrowed in what can only be called amusement.

"Sorry," Hawke says, even though it feels it's all he's said tonight.

"_Hnn_," is all Fenris says as one corner of his mouth twitches before he lowers his head to gently kiss Hawke's shoulder. "Unexpected, not unwelcome."

And it occurs to Hawke perhaps things will not be so difficult after all.

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><p>The lovely prompter of this story drew art for it! I've linked to it in my profile. It's adorable and wonderful and made me *squee* and *sniffle*, all in the space of a few seconds.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

For a prompt requesting Fenris becoming comfortable in Hawke's home.

Warnings: None.

Pairing: m!mage!Hawke/Fenris

Rating: M/R

Notes: Second person point of view.

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><p>The walk from the outskirts of Kirkwall to Lowtown to Hightown has never felt so long.<p>

You've come to expect you'll be tired, the bone-deep fatigue that comes from fighting Qunari or thugs or slavers is nothing new, but this is different.

This was dealing with mages who, in a different world, could have been Bethany or your father or even you. And then, you had to make the hard decision to send them back to the Circle, despite their pleas.

Anders, of course, had been filled with righteous anger. He'd stood toe to toe with you, shouting, and you could feel Justice crackling just below his skin. It hadn't come to blows, not this time - and it probably never would- but his words had been painful.

It doesn't help that at least a small part of you agrees with him. You are a hypocrite.

You sigh and climb the last steps to Hightown, pausing as you look across the courtyard, past the tree-filled planters and stone columns and the noble couple strolling arm and arm. It would be easy to walk past your own door, trace the all-too-familiar path to Fenris' mansion.

And what if he wanted to argue about mages? Your shoulders sag and you turn towards your own home, which, in truth, has started to feel less and less like home and more a place to sleep and eat and stare at empty places at the table.

You push the door open and lean your staff against wall, and when it slips and clatters to the floor, you have the irrational urge to hit something. Instead you close the door, probably with too much force because at the sound, Bohdan trots into the foyer with his customary sunny expression firmly in place.

"Messere! Welcome home."

"Home," you repeat and Bohdan's smile slips a little and you feel worse for this. "Long day," you offer and then because he still looks concerned, "Do you know what a 'do over' is, Bohdan?"

"No, messere, I can't say I've heard of that before."

"It's something we would say as children. A turn in a game would go badly and we would demand a 'do over'. That's what I want today to be. I want to do it over."

"Ah," he says, and you think he still doesn't understand, but he pats your forearm kindly despite it. Then he tips his head toward the library. "Messere Fenris is here."

You blink. "What? I didn't ask..."

Bohdan begins to apologize, hands twisting in front of him. "Oh! I thought, given how often he -"

"No, no... it's fine," you say, interrupting him before he can work himself into a dither. "I just... it usually takes the promise of wine to pull him away from his rats and cobwebs."

"As you say, messere," he looks at you doubtfully, but seems to forgive this newest oddity in his life because he nods and holds out his hand. "If you'll let me take your coat?"

You pull off your gloves and the armored jacket, but you truthfully don't hear another of his words as he chatters on. Fenris inviting himself over is new and this makes a thing which feels tight and worried twist in your stomach. Maker, you think, please don't let this day get worse.

"Fine, yes. Whatever you decide," you say to Bohdan, thinking belatedly -but not actually caring- you may have just authorized a purchase of salamanders or more of that terrible cheese Dog likes so much.

The door to the library isn't quite closed and although it might seem like an odd thing to do in your own home, you tap on the wood lightly before pushing it open. Surprising Fenris is a spectacularly bad idea.

The door swings open and as you make it only two steps into the room before you stop. You can't help it. Fenris is asleep in one of the chairs nearest your desk.

His feet are propped on a footstool, crossed at the ankle and he's slouched down until his chin touches his chest and his hair falls over his eyes. There's a book open and face down on his stomach and you can see he still marks the place with his thumb.

The fact that he is wearing the new leggings and shirt you gave him hasn't escaped your notice, either.

You turn and close the door slowly, wincing at the click as the latch makes contact, but a quick look to Fenris shows this hasn't woken him.

Crossing the room, you can see the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the way the lyrium on the back of the hand holding the book reflects the single candle he's lit. His lips tighten and his hand twitches and it's obvious he's dreaming.

It feels decidedly strange to watch him this way, to see him so vulnerable, without his armor or guarded scowl. A sudden pang goes through you at your next thought; he feels safe enough to sleep here, unarmored and unarmed.

"Fenris," you say, softly.

That is all it takes and he bolts upright in the chair, sending the book to the floor.

"_Quaeso magister_-" he bites off the words as he realizes his surroundings and stares at you taking short, hard breaths. You have the sudden urge to find the bits of Danarius' scattered remains, resurrect him, and gut him alive.

Fenris looks away and from the set of his jaw and the way his hands grip the arms of the chair you know he is reining in emotion he wishes you'd rather not see.

You shift your weight and then pick up the book from where it landed, avoiding looking at him. There's a scrap of paper on your desk and you slip it between the pages where you think he'd stopped reading. When you set it next to the small pot of ink and untrimmed quills you hear him shift in the chair and clear his throat.

You turn and pretend you didn't hear or see the things of his past he'd just revealed. You tap the book on the desk. "Any good?"

He shrugs and pretends as well. "Predictable."

"Most of them are," you attempt a smile and somehow he manages to respond, although it's the slightest movement of the corner of his mouth. With Fenris, this might as well been a full-fledged grin and it eases some of the anger and worry you feel.

You slump into the chair next to his, and put your feet on the stool with a sigh. He's watching you, scrutinizing your expression. Regardless of how he learned the skill, he knows how to read people.

"Are you... unwell?" he asks.

This makes you snort and it's completely without humor. "Bad day that..." you refuse to explain do-overs a second time in one night. "There were things I wouldn't want to repeat."

"Hm."

Considering you've had entire conversations where he's said only that single word, his lack of response doesn't surprise or bother you.

"Anders and I got into a bit of a squabble. About mages."

Annoyance crosses his face, followed by irritation. Or, maybe the expressions were one in the same. With Fenris, a person couldn't always be certain. "And you're surprised by this, Hawke?"

You don't want to answer that, so you look at the book on the desk, realizing you haven't read the title. When you tilt your head to make out the words on the spine, you can't help but laugh. "Really? You're reading Varric's latest?"

"Yes. As I said, it's predictable."

"And you're surprised by this?" you turn his words around and almost capture his inflection and are rewarded with another small quirk of his lips.

"Only by the incredibly absurd ways in which he attempts to build suspense," Fenris says, but his expression turns more serious. "You're avoiding my question."

"He called me a hypocrite," you say, flatly. It's no less painful now than when the man you would call a friend had spoken it.

"And you're foolish enough to take that to heart," he doesn't ask this; it's a statement.

"Aren't I? I look around and see what I have and -" you take a breath in, exhaling slowly. "I don't... let's not do this tonight, Fenris."

He regards you with an intensity that's almost unnerving. "I could go," he says and stands.

You think of the empty places at your table and look up at him.

"I'd rather you stayed."

He nods and you can almost pinpoint the exact moment at which he comes to a decision. He steps forward and bends over your chair and grabs the front of your shirt. Then he pulls you toward him and when his mouth presses against yours, you don't resist.

His lips part, demanding, and you yield, letting him brush his tongue against yours. You slide your hands up his arms to his shoulders, The shirt he wears is thin and almost as finely spun as silk. This still isn't as smooth as you know his skin to be and you want more.

You run your hands down his sides to tug the cloth from where he's tucked it into the waist of his leggings and then pull up the shirt until it bunches. When you slide your hands over his sides, you can't help but revel in the way muscle moves under his skin, smooth and hard and under your palms and fingers.

You know the places to avoid, where the lyrium scars him, and his skin is as perfect as you remember, and you feel your cock twitch and start to thicken against the cloth of your trousers.

You shift in the chair, mouth still on his, because you're getting harder by the second and any moment you will be distinctly uncomfortable. You groan in protest and try to move, but he isn't finished kissing you and pushes you firmly back.

He releases his grip on the front of your shirt and pulls it up roughly. His fingers brush over your skin, teasing their way up, circling one nipple before squeezing hard enough to draw another groan from you.

You shudder and dig your nails into his back and he mutters something in Arcanum against your mouth and you feel it as much as you hear it, a low growl against your hands. It's a sound that always has the same effect, going to your groin and making you ache as your hips jerk up.

Now his hand is moving down, fingers skating in small gentle circles across your chest and then stomach. Your breath hitches and -

A crash in the foyer makes you both freeze. There's the sound of voices and Dog barking and then, because the Maker was cruel in the worst of ways, "Enchantment?"

Fenris pulls back and looks at you. "Tell me you locked the door."

Of course you hadn't. "No… and when Sandal's startled things go boom."

"Hawke… " he sighs, but puts his hands on the arms of the chair and then, for the briefest of moments, presses his temple against yours.

You kiss his neck and with an unexpected rush of warmth in your chest, you think this is home, here under your hands.

He leans back and looks at you, eyes narrowed into slivers of green, with that little quirk to his mouth. "You're smiling? Now?"

Yes, it seems you are.

"Just thinking I was wrong. About a lot of things, and that there at least parts of this day that doing over wouldn't be such a horrible thing."

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><p>AN: Yeah. I went there with the 'unlocked door' as a cockblock. Sorry. 


	3. Chapter 3

This was for a distinctly AU prompt. The idea here is Anders and Fenris cannot die; the former due to Justice, the latter because of the lyrium.

It made me think of the song _The Highwayman_ (which I realize gives away TMI about my music tastes).

Of the fills I've completed, this one interests me the most, and is one I wouldn't mind playing with again in the future. The song does have three more parts...

Rating: M / R

Warnings: Temporary character death.

Pairing: None. Anders and Fenris as... not really even friends.

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><p><em>I was a highwayman, along the coach roads I did ride.<em>

Anders can't help but think it's bloody inconsiderate of the mob to hang Fenris on such a miserably soggy day. He doesn't fancy getting soaked in the new coat, but with the way the rain is picking up, he's forced to resign himself to smelling like a wet bird.

The elf is going to owe him after this.

He follows the crowd of would-be lynchmen along the rutted lane, trying to dodge the worst of the puddles. Even though he has yet to see Fenris, he catches enough snatches of conversation around him to know he hadn't gone quietly. Not that Anders expected the past few hundred years or so to temper that reaction to being taken captive.

"Excuse me." He smiles his most charming grin when what he assumes to be a farmer jostles against him.

The man blinks up at him, dark, fuzzy eyebrows pulling toward one another in distrust. "You're not from town."

"Writer. From the city?" Anders reaches inside the coat and pulls free a sheaf of paper, hoping following the trash publications printed in far-off Denerim isn't one of the fellow's hobbies.

"_Times _or _Gazetteer_?"

Well.

"No… it's smaller. The… _Freedom's Call_," he lies. He sees the eyebrows dart toward each other again like two angry caterpillars and tries to deflect further questioning with a jerk of his head. "What did the elf do?"

"You really aren't from around here," the farmer steps squarely in a puddle. Anders tries not to huff when dirty water splashes his trousers.

"No," another smile, but it's forced.

"He's a thief. Been raidin' coaches and shipments all up and down the Imperial," a cluck of the man's tongue. "We all got a little tired of that mage."

"Mage?" he says it without thinking, Justice uncoiling sleepily from the corner of his mind.

"Don't get your smalls in a twist." The farmer raises two fat-fingered hands as though in surrender and when he speaks, Anders notices a black gap where front teeth should be. "We hang all thieves. Don't care if they're mages or not. I lost two shipments of silks to 'im."

This wouldn't be the first time Fenris' powers have been mistaken for magic, but stealing? .

"You're… a merchant?" he tries to keep the disbelief from his voice.

The eyebrows shoot up and then down in an aggravated dance. "Tailor."

Anders really doesn't have a reply to that, but is saved from further conversation because the mob has reached a bare-limbed sylvan. From the collection of bodies in various degrees of decomposition swaying in the early spring wind, this was the local hanging tree.

Now he does see Fenris and can't help but wince. They've stripped him to his leggings and trussed him like a Feastday goose, arms pinned so tightly behind him with rune-woven rope that it's a wonder he hasn't dislocated a shoulder.

He's sporting fresh bruises and what looks to be a stab wound to his side. The rain washes over this and the healer in Anders wants to wade through the crowd and repair the damage.

As they've both discovered over the years, immortality came with pain which really didn't seem fair.

The elected hangman is placing the noose over Fenris' head. It slips over rain-matted hair and catches on one elegantly tapered ear and when the rope is jerked down, Anders frowns at the way Fenris hisses in response.

When the noose is tightened, Anders' hand goes to his own throat reflexively.

The tailor makes a noise, a strange little burping grunt, and Anders glances at him.

"First hanging?"

"Ah. No. Actually." He doesn't add that the last was his own and a hundred years hasn't taken away the feeling of rough hemp crushing skin and cartilage.

The rope, a loose coil that unspools as it's thrown, arcs over a limb. Someone catches the end and takes up the slack.

Fenris stands straight and tilts his chin up defiantly, glaring at his executioners. His eyes sweep the crowd.

"Proud bugger," the tailor says, without concealing his contempt.

Anders resists the urge to spark lightening at him and instead stands a bit straighter himself, staring at Fenris, willing the elf to look at him.

There. Green eyes lock on his own.

The slack is out of the rope now, but as they hoist Fenris into the air, Anders doesn't miss the little smirk of triumph that quirks one corner of Fenris' mouth.

Anders looks down at his own feet then. This he can't watch. He knows all too well the way the rope slowly constricts, crushing the larynx as lungs and mind both scream and the world narrows to bright points of light in sea of dark.

He thinks of the last time he died, when he was hanged. He'd worn solid, practical boots, and Justice -long since as resigned to these strange deaths as Anders is resigned now to smelling like a wet bird- had let him go with barely a whimper.

Anders stands like that, staring at his feet, for a long while. Long after the noises from under the tree stop. Long after the hangman declares Fenris dead. Finally, when the crowd is gone, he looks up.

Fenris' body turns in a slow circle at the end of the rope. Rain courses over his pale skin and open eyes, running in broken rivulets down his shoulders and chest and leathers.

Anders thinks that must have been how he looked the last time he died and even though he hasn't vomited in years, he does now. He bends at the waist and grey Ferelden stew and ale splatter the ground. His eyes water and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to catch his breath.

"Right," he says, forcing himself to move toward the tree. "This isn't as bad as Second Great Rebellion, is it? He had his bloody head cut off then. Just popped it back on and that was that."

He's close enough to touch Fenris' body and tries not see the bruises and cuts; they'll be gone soon enough. He reaches above the elf's head to steady the rope, bracing his forearm on water-darkened hair as he takes a knife from his belt.

He saws at the rope, glad he had sharpened the knife the evening before. The rope is wet and frays on strand at a time under the blade and Anders ignores the way the elf's dead hands brush against the front of the new coat. The last bit of rope is severed and Fenris falls free, his body crumpling in heap at Anders' feet.

The rope around Fenris' neck is the next thing Anders focuses on. He rolls Fenris to his back. Green eyes, dulled now, stare back, and Anders winces as he turns the elf's head away. As he slips the blade between skin and noose, he notices the ear that caught earlier had torn a bit, and shakes his head.

"In parts of Ferelden, they find an elf guilty of theft, they clip his ears," he says, being careful not to nick a line of lyrium which lies under the rope. "What were you thinking? Petty theft?"

When rope finally falls away, he next tends to the twists binding Fenris' wrists, noting the skin there has gone long since passed the point of being raw. He tries a healing spell, not really surprised when it doesn't work.

Anders drags Fenris further under the tree, looking up first to make sure nothing too grisly was directly above them. He pulls a spare cloak from his pack, shaking it out with another frown.

"Just bought this, you broody bastard." He kneels down next to Fenris, tucking it around his spare frame before he sits back and rests his back against the trunk of the tree.

The rain has long since soaked his hair, and as he works it trickles under his collar, between his shoulder blades. He glances up at the corpses still hanging and then back at Fenris; the rain collecting in the elf's eyes decides it for him.

He moves forward and grabs Fenris under the arms, pulling him half into his lap. Then he casts a shield. The rain sparks against the spell, surrounding them like angry fireflies. He knows he can't hold it indefinitely, but at least they can start to dry out.

Well, mostly dry out. He considers the way the ground is soaking the seat of his breeches, the way they feel wet and cold against his ass. He leans forward to mutter in an unhearing ear. "You're paying to have all this cleaned."

Time passes, measured only by the spit and hiss of the rain striking the shield. The clouds darken as evening falls. At some point, hours later -suppertime if Anders' stomach is any indicator- the rain does stop and Anders is able to drop the shield.

He looks at the body cradled in his arms. If he hadn't seen this too many times, he'd think death had actually taken this time. Then Fenris starts to cough.

Anders scoots back, lowering Fenris back to the ground. He knows better than touching him now. Coming back is as bad as going.

He moves just out of arm's reach, watching Fenris' face. The elf's eyelids are squeezed shut and his mouth twists as he gasps in painful breaths.

"Welcome back," Anders says dryly and is rewarded with a sliver of color between dark eyelashes.

"Mage…" Another coughing and gasping spell, and Fenris' voice is barely a hoarse whisper. "Anders."

"So I'm told." He picks a stem of winter-killed grass, twirling it between his fingers. "Your first hanging, isn't it?"

This earns him what he supposes passes for a laugh. "Yes."

"Your wrists are infected."

"I was bound for some time."

Anders doesn't comment, only watches the cloak rise and fall with the elf's breathing. He knows part of this curse they share is healing, but he offers anyway. "I can heal you, if you like. I suppose you still hate magic, though."

"They will heal without assistance." There's a pause as Fenris pushes himself to his elbows with a grunt. "You were late."

"What?" Anders feigns annoyance, watching as the elf sits up and examines his wrists. The torn flesh has taken a healthy pink tone, filling in with new skin even as they watch. "I hung in the middle of Antiva City for three days. Three days, Fenris."

"You - and then your corpse- were under guard. I arrived well before you died," Fenris says.

"Rumor has it you got caught because you were stealing. Silk cloth." Anders stretches and the vertebrae pop and crack up the length of his spine. "Expanding your wardrobe after all these years?"

"Hardly." Fenris hesitates, brushing at something on his arm Anders can't see. Then he shrugs. "I intended to sell the cloth."

"Sell the cloth? Wait…" he trails off, then laughs. "You're that hooded fellow the papers are going on about, aren't you?"

Fenris doesn't answer, only scowls and starts to pull the cloak from where Anders tucked it around his legs.

Anders snorts, then stands up slowly; now it's his knees that creak and he amuses himself with the thought that he must be growing old. He brushes ineffectually at his rear. "You might want to give up this line of charity."

"I will consider it, mage." Fenris pushes himself from the ground and stands unsteadily, the cloak draped over one arm.

Anders knows staying longer isn't a good idea; it only leads to arguments and accusations and opening of wounds which have never really healed. "You can keep the cloak."

Fenris looks at him and Anders sees the injury to his ear has disappeared. Fenris' voice is stronger when he asks, "Where will you go next?"

"The sea, I think," he answers and grins. "Always meant to learn sailing."

The answering smile surprises him. Maybe the elf is softening after all. "Then I shall endeavor to learn to swim."

"I'm counting on it," Anders says. He picks up his pack and when he walks away he doesn't look back.


	4. Chapter 4

For Isabela fan week on Tumblr.

Rating: M / R (probably could get away with a strong T / PG-13)

Pairing: Isabela/Fenris

Warnings: Fluff. Fluff. More fluff.

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><p><strong>Of All the Flags I've Flown<strong>

They're still tangled together when the sun breaks the line of the horizon, limbs and coarse sheets on a narrow bed that belongs to neither of them. She lies on top of him, her curves fitted to his sharp angles and her breath is hot on his collarbone while he gasps raggedly into her black hair.

Fenris blinks at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Isabela's breathing slowing even as his own heartbeat steadies and stops its wild rhythm in his chest.

He strokes her side, brushing his knuckles over each of her ribs, then splays his fingers over her waist and sighs.

"I'm too heavy?" Isabela asks, tone and lips teasing his ear. She shifts on top of him, tightens around him, and he hisses something that means in a single drawn-out sound _too soon_, _too much_ and _stop_.

She chuckles and nips at the point of his ear, but her body relaxes.

"No. Not yet." He turns his head and kisses her temple. She wears a different scent than the last time they met and although that has changed, she still tastes of the sea, of wind and sun and places just beyond.

"Ever the flatterer," she says and untangles her fingers from his hair; he's fairly certain her nails have left rows of crescent divots on his scalp. "It's a good thing you're such a fantastic lay, kitten, because your pillow talk needs work."

"_Hnn_," he says, sliding a hand over the curve of her hip, dragging his fingers over her skin. And he thinks it's a good thing she can't see his expression; he knows his grin would give away his intent. As it is, he's rewarded with an indignant squeal when he slaps her rear hard enough it will leave a mark.

"Bastard!" she says, but she laughs.

She moves her hands and the mattress dips as she lifts herself to look at him. He sees the welts his teeth and tongue and lips her neck and thinks of the ones she left on the inside of his thigh.

"You look too smug. Copper for your thoughts," she says. Her dark eyes are warm and so is her smile as she kisses his chin, the place where the lyrium almost scars his lip.

"How long will you stay?" he asks the question without preamble and keeps emotion from his voice as he trails his hand up the length of her spine. The pads of his sword-calloused fingers glide over her sweat-slicked skin, pausing to trace a puckered scar that winds over her shoulder.

Something shifts in her expression, closing him out before she rolls off of him with a sigh.

She sits on the edge of the bed and the air is cold against his damp skin. His hands feel empty; he resists the urge to reach out and touch her again.

"Old ground, sweet thing," she says, standing up. He watches silently as she starts to dress. She tugs her tunic on, fastening the belt with quick, angry jerks. "This is just for fun. You might think you still owe Hawke, but he and I settled up a long time ago."

Her smalls are on top of a wardrobe and she puts her hands on her hips and frowns up at them.

Fenris pulls himself from the bed. He's tired and sore in not unpleasant ways, but his fatigue runs deeper than the physical. "Strangely enough, this," he gestures between them, the space where tension is almost palpable, "does not feel like 'fun'."

He uses his sword to retrieve her undergarment, leaning the weapon back against the wall after Isabela snatches the bit of cloth from him. She doesn't answer him and he's known her long enough to recognize when she's preparing to flee.

While Isabela starts on her boots, he drags his leggings from under a chair. He dresses in silence, surprised that she hasn't stormed out yet. He belts his coat before he speaks again. "My debt to Hawke has long since been repaid," he finally says.

This gives her pause. She hesitates, fingers nervous on a buckle she's already fastened. "In case you haven't noticed, you still follow along on his mad adventures."

He picks up his chest plate. Isabela moves to his side, batting his hands away as she threads leather straps through buckles. She keeps her eyes on her task, fingers moving as surely over his armor as they had his skin.

"I…" He traps her hands with his own. When her eyes meet his he says, "I could see myself leaving. For the right reasons."

There's something in her expression he can't read. He is unsurprised when she pulls her hands from his and steps away with a small shake of her head. "That's not the way we do it, gorgeous."

He half-hopes she'll stop or look back, but she doesn't. She picks up her bag and walks out and doesn't even close the door behind her.

He should not have expected another outcome, and yet... this time, with her, he thought it could have been different.

He belts on his sword, and after surveying the damage to the room -one chair in particular is likely beyond repair- he takes a few sovereigns from his belt pouch and tosses them onto the bed.

The door closes with a solid click behind him, leaving him in the darkened hallway. He can hear muted noises from the tavern below as the early morning crowd arrives, and the smell of cooking meat drifting up the stairwell reminds him he hasn't eaten recently.

There is a whisper of sound in the dark hall behind him and he stops. He doesn't reach for his sword; he knows without looking that it's her.

"I don't fuck my crew," she says. Her voice is a smooth purr in his ear and he turns to face her; his eyes adjust to the low light and he can see the curve of her cheek and the flash of white teeth as she smiles.

He makes no reply at first, only eases his weight from one foot to the other. His armor creaks, leather straps fastened by a rogue's hand shifting against one another. He leans in close enough to brush his lips along the curve of her ear. Where she had purred, he growls. "Then it is fortunate I have no wish to be one of your crew."

She laughs and the low sound fills the narrow space between them. "That's a relief. The amount of amazing sex going to waste would be criminal."

"I… agree." They're dancing around the thing between them which has nothing to do with tension or muttered words or even a pirate's laugh and he remembers something a witch once said. If ever there was a time to leap, it would be now. "There is nothing holding me here. I will not follow where you lead, but… I would walk beside you."

Her eyes narrow. "I'm setting sail within the hour." She turns from him, and for the second time that morning walks away.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, she pauses and looks over her shoulder. Light reflects from the stud below her lip, gold flashing as she speaks. "Walk where you like… but on my ship, kitten? You'll have to call me Captain."

He gives the barest of nods. "An acceptable offer." One corner of his mouth turns up and he closes the distance between them without taking his eyes from her, lest she disappear by some rogue's trick.

"An acceptable offer, _Captain_," she says, her smile a reflection of his.

He lifts his hand slowly and rests his palm against her jaw, smallest finger brushing the line of her throat. He can feel her pulse beating, faster than he expects, and he gives another small nod. "As you say, Captain."

END

-o-

Title? More of my sap-tastic music, naturally. From Wynnona Judd's _Only Love_.

For those of you who added _Silk_ to your alerts and/or favorites... thank you so very much. :)

If you liked the 'Highwayman' section, I'm working on the next part.


	5. Chapter 5

**Rating:** T

**Pairing:** m!warrior!Hawke/Fenris

**A/N: **For a kmeme prompt:

_I could trace all the markings on your body with my eyes closed._

_Fenris and Hawke were lovers for some time but Fenris doesn't remember.  
>Maybe he has an amnesia, or it's a different Fenris from an alternate world or another time...<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Stone and Silver<strong>

Hawke has never really been a patient man. He's always thought of himself as simple sort; he wields a two-handed sword taller than most elves and cuts down anything that threatens him or his own. It was simple and it absolutely did not require patience.

Listening to Bethany and a merchant discuss the merits of different silks, one colored _stone _and the other _silverite _required patience, especially as to Hawke they appeared to be equally _grey_. With the Antivan sun casting sharp midday shadows across the market and the humidity rolling off of Rialto Bay in a curtain, Hawk begins to feel what tolerance he had mustered for the chore slip.

"They both look grey to me, Beth," he says, finally.

The merchant and his sister turn to look him. He knows the irritation and exasperation he feels have colored his words. The righteous Antivan indignation which rolls from the cloth-seller is almost tangible.

He can see amusement and affection on Bethany's face and then she rolls her eyes and he smiles.

"Sorry, Sister. Serah." He nods at each. "I'll just… go look at swords. Or something."

He wanders away from them, through the crowded market, past a stand filled with fruit and pastries, and another which sells leather goods. The sun presses hot against his face and the pale flesh of his neck, and he looks over his shoulder hoping -without any expectation of having the hope realized- that Bethany had decided on one of the grey silks.

She notices him looking and smiles quickly, but then picks up another bolt of cloth. The merchant flutters his hands. Hawke sighs and continues through the crowd.

His patience further deteriorates with the jostling of a strange elbow against his own and wonders -not for the first time- how the natives managed to look so comfortable in the blasted heat. He'd found Kirkwall to be bad enough; Antiva City in the summer was unbearable.

Then again, as the locals were ever-so-quick to repeatedly point out with words and condescending glances, he would always be _Fereldan_.

The armorer is located in the corner of the market and although he would never turn away from the chance to browse weaponry, the truth of his destination had more to do with the large date tree shading the stand than examining the man's wares.

He looks down the line of blades absently, testing the edge of one or two with his thumb and then glances back across the crowded square. Bethany still has her head bent over the silks, but he can tell from the set of her shoulders and the way one hand is resting on her hip that she is becoming less involved in the subtleties of _grey _herself.

Hawke smiles and thinks that Bethany's patience -although greater than his own- had limits the merchant did not want to test. Amused at the thought of his sister turning her annoyance and barbed wit on the fop, Hawke moves further along the table, until he comes to the two-handers.

The sun flickers through the fronds of the date tree and the thick presses against him. He thinks he really should follow Bethany's advice of buying lighter armor and he isn't paying all too much attention to the blades, until he sees one that reminds him so strongly of a Blade of Mercy he freezes in place and stares.

It isn't, of course. The hilt and hand guard and shape were all different enough, and he can tell from looking that the balance was inferior. But still. It reminds him of the past, of…

No. He's spent too much time putting that particular bit behind him and he isn't going to-

"Hmm… _aún no ha llegado_?"

The words are foreign and unintelligible, but they're spoken almost as though on cue to his thoughts and in a voice he would recognize anywhere, and it's a voice from memories too vivid to ever forget.

He also thinks, as he turns his head slowly to the right, he must be suffering from sunstroke because the elf standing not ten feet away has white hair and dark skin and lines of white that wind to an end near his ear.

Hawke knows he's staring. What other reaction should he have?

The clothing is wrong: leggings and a tailored black silk shirt, and the only weapon the elf wears is a dagger tucked into the belt at the small of his back, but his hair and the profile of his nose and the way his green eyes flash in the bright sun are all exactly as Hawke remembers.

Sunstroke. That is the only explanation why he's seeing a dead man at a weapon's shop in Antiva. He wipes his face, running his hand over sweaty skin, and hopes, as he closes his eyes under his palm, that when he opens them again, it will be some other elf standing there, arguing with the merchant.

He has no such luck and what's worse, the elf is stepping sideways towards him, pointing at blades irritably as he goes.

Hawke thinks -dimly, with the portion of his brain still functioning- that the missing weapon is likely why the elf is gesturing and pointing and speaking so rapidly in Antivan.

The merchant throws his hands in the air and waves down the table, at the very blade in front of Hawke; the blade which seems to have somehow conjured the voice and appearance of a love long since lost.

The elf -who Hawke still fears to think of by _that_ name- moves to stand in front of the sword, quite close to Hawke. He frowns down at the table and gives a _hnn _of disapproval and when he begins to speak it's accentuated by more sharp gestures.

Then he reaches for the sword, presumably to demonstrate how poorly it's balanced, and as he leans in front of Hawke, he says, "_Por favor, perdón por mi intromisión_."

Hawke is close enough to the elf to touch his shoulder if he wanted. "I… I don't…"

The elf looks at him rather sharply, drawing back empty-handed. "Ah. My apologies." A long, appraising look. "It is not often I hear the common tongue."

There is no recognition in his eyes, only the relaxed smile of one stranger bumping into another in the market. His voice is the same, though. It's low and slightly rough at the edges, but now it's tinted with Antivan and Hawke feels the world tilt.

He takes a half-step and puts a steadying hand on the table, thinking perhaps it wasn't heat stroke but a mage's work.

Fenris was dead. They'd all seen the way the spell swallowed him whole, the way the magic had activated with a deranged blood mage's final breaths. One moment Fenris had buried his fist in the mage's chest, the next they had both vanished. They had searched the city for days, but Fenris was gone.

Vanished. Maybe that means _not dead_, Hawke thinks wildly, followed quickly by the thought he was losing his mind because this doppelganger was looking at him with concern.

"Are you unwell, messere?"

"I… yes…" And all he can do is stare into warm green eyes and say, "Fenris?"

There's an immediate shift in the elf's expression. He is guarded and suspicious and looks infinitely more like who he should, and although he undoubtedly reacts to the name, there is still no sign he recognizes Hawke.

"I believe you are mistaken, messere," he says coolly, stepping back.

"No. I'm not," Hawke says and his thoughts spin like a child's top, because all he can think is he knows how this elf would feel under his hands, he knows where the lyrium does and does not mark his skin. He knows the sounds he could pull from the elegant lyrium-marked throat, and the way soft white hair would smell should he bury his face in it. "No, I'm most definitely not - "

He doesn't complete the sentence because he hears Bethany calling his name. He looks toward her voice, finding her face as she makes her way through the crowd, and when he looks back, the elf is gone.

The world tilts again and he knows if he doesn't sit soon, he'll collapse on top of the sword-seller's table.

He steps back, toward the trunk of the date tree. His back touches the peeling bark and he lets himself slide slowly down until he's sitting with his knees bunched almost around his ears.

"Garrett?" Bethany is standing over him, he knows it's her because he recognizes the shoes she's wearing as same light purple -or was it _lavender _or _periwinkle_, he thinks wildly- ones he'd been forced to watch her pick out two weeks prior.

"I'm fine," he says, and almost laughs. Perhaps he was overstating it with 'fine'. "You'll never guess who I saw."

Bethany crouches down in front of him, and he feels her hand on his forehead. He thinks her touch is soft and lovely and warm and he sighs as he leans into it.

"Garrett, you're cold as ice." She sounds worried, and that makes Hawke feel truly wretched.

"Sorry, Bethany," he says, blinking.

"You have heat stroke. Maker knows how you've avoided it this long, insisting on wearing your armor in this heat…" she trails off and he feels a subtle pulse of magic -as soft and warm as her touch- enough that a Templar could sense it, but Antiva was in short supply of those as of late.

He blinks again and his thoughts are clear and despite a headache pounding behind his eyes he feels more or less like himself.

He looks up at her and grins weakly. "Sorry."

She smiles at him and then gracefully lowers herself to sit next to him. "So. Who did you see?"

Hawke looks at the table of swords and the crowd as he considers his answer. "When you were in the Circle, did you ever hear of a spell that could move a person across Thedas?"

Bethany looks at him a bit oddly, but she shakes her head. "No. Of course not. You know it doesn't work like that."

"I see. Yes, I mean, I know." He looks into the crowd again. Heat stroke giving him hallucinations of his dead lover. That, he thinks bitterly, is the perfect way to end a shopping trip with his sister.

"Come on," Bethany says, standing and brushing off her skirts as she offers him her hand. "Let's get you home."

Hawke levers himself up with a grunt. As they make their way back toward the exit, Hawke looks back over his shoulder. He doesn't expect to see anything -not a flash of white hair or the glare of green eyes- and isn't disappointed.

He knows magic doesn't work like that, but for a moment he wishes it.


End file.
